Apollo Project

by Brittany E Brinegar

  Davidson collapsed to the side of the road on a jagged rock. “Watch your mouth about Genevieve. But I do want to stop.”

  Tom circled, inspecting every direction. “A couple of us can gather firewood. We can get some sleep before we head out.”

  Chapter 12 – Caribou Crew

  Reagan

  The trail to the ranger station was rough in normal conditions and nothing about the situation was normal. Thanks to Kelly’s fire-hairspray combo, most of the bees retreated. As morning slipped to afternoon the haze faded from dark moss to Crayola green. Reagan produced a pair of polarized aviator sunglasses from her pack, combatting the glare.

  “Why is it so bright?” Kelly asked as she rummaged through her fanny-pack. She carried everything she needed in the apparatus. Like Mary Poppins' bottomless bag of tricks, Kelly carried endless supplies – a flashlight, money, keys, Ray-Bans, Neosporin, lighter, pocket knife, pen and pad, toothbrush, a diagram on how to tie knots, spork, hand sanitizer, and empty Ziplocs. This time she grabbed the Ray-Bans. “The sun isn’t even visible.”

  Granddad yanked on the brim of his straw hat. “Which makes navigation nearly impossible.”

  “I had no idea it would get this cold.” Jon readjusted his grip on the stretcher. He winced as he jammed the sprained wrist.

  “It’s odd for this time of year,” Reagan said. The weather pattern defied logic.

  Annabeth stirred in the stretcher, her first movement in more than an hour.

  Reagan passed her end to Kelly. “Annabeth? How are you feeling.”

  “My throat hurts,” Annabeth croaked.

  Reagan brushed the hair out of her sister’s eyes. “What about your head? Do you feel dizzy or nauseous?”

  “A little bit.” She shifted in the stretcher and Kelly struggled to maintain her grip.

  “I’ve got her,” Reagan said returning to her post. “We’ll be at the ranger station soon.”

  “Her color’s better,” Granddad said. “And the swelling has gone down.”

  Scrunching her jacket sleeves, Kelly inspected her arms. “Looks like we all got stung.”

  “What causes something like that?” Under the green sky, Jon’s eyes appeared jade. He probably excelled in undercover work at the ATF. He didn’t have a discernable accent and he could pass for almost any ethnicity.

  Kelly walked backward several steps to speak with Jon. “I haven’t a clue.”

  “No wild theories?” Granddad leaned on his cane. “I do believe it’s a first.”

  “I’m a simple math teacher, not a melittologist,” Kelly said.

  Reagan’s brow arched. “And with Google out of commission, I can’t challenge your Scrabble word.”

  “Pocket the red challenge flag. I’m right. Something like this can’t be solved with numbers. Bees shouldn’t behave this way. And the sky shouldn’t look like grass.”

  Granddad rolled his shoulders. “Maybe we’re in a mirror universe where everything is the opposite. Green skies, cold summers…”

  “Mirror universe?” Kelly balked. “Boy Tucker. You pulled that dusty old theory from the sci-fi reject pile, didn’t you?”

  “If we were in an opposite universe, Norm and Cliff here might agree on something,” Reagan said pointing a thumb at Granddad and Kelly.

  “They always argue like this?” Jon asked.

  Reagan smirked. “Only when they’re together, or on the phone, or texting. So yes, always.”

  Jon pursed his thin lips. “They don’t like each other?”

  “Outsiders tend to misunderstand their arguing. They’re best friends. Disagreeing about everything and anything is a big part of the friendship.”

  “Huh,” Jon said.

  “Ranger station is around the corner,” Kelly said from her position at the front of the pack.

  Upon reaching the clearing, a hushed, unnatural chill settled over the station. “Ranger?” Reagan called. “Anyone there?”

  Easing her side of the stretcher to the ground, Reagan motioned for Jon to do the same. “Granddad, keep an eye on Annabeth.” Reagan snatched the rifle from her shoulder and inched to the station.

  “What are you expecting to find?” Jon asked, hovering like a close-talker.

  “Hopefully not more bees.” Reagan crept inside the ranger station. Once she adjusted to the darkness, she found the station empty. She pointed to the landline. “Give the phone a try. I’ll fiddle with the ham radio.”

  “No dial tone,” Jon said after a moment. “This is getting strange. I understand the lack of cell service. But this?”

  “I guess the storm hit here too.” Even Reagan didn’t buy the excuse as static hissed. “When Travis Wayne catches us, he might be able to fix the radio.”

  Jon crossed his arms and adjusted his stance. “Are you sure this Travis Wayne is coming back? I didn’t want to say anything in front of his wife.”

  “Travis Wayne will be back. I don’t want to hear another word to the contrary.”

  Jon held his hands in surrender. “Fine.”

  “What about your partner? Are you worried about her?”

  Jon sat on the edge of the ranger’s desk. “Robin is a good agent. Probably better than me.”

  “Once we get Annabeth to safety, I’ll help search for your partner.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think she’s close.”

  “Reagan, get out here,” Kelly hollered.

  “Give me a sec.”

  Jon threw open a closet and found a shotgun and shells. “Bingo.”

  Reagan frowned. “How’d you know a gun would be in there?”

  “Only one reason a closet would have a padlock,” he said jogging to the door.

  Reagan trailed Jon outside and spotted Kelly with her arms around Travis Wayne. “Hey there Foxworthy, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Reagan said with a Mary Tyler Moore smile.

  “Foxworthy?” Jon asked from her side. “I assumed he was Kelly’s husband.”

  “It’s a nickname. Travis Wayne might be a redneck… Jeff Foxworthy’s famous comedy routine.”

  “I see. My comrades gave me a nickname in boot camp.”

  “Giggles?” Reagan guessed.

  “No.” The irony of Reagan’s answer flew thirty-thousand feet over Jon’s head. “Little Jon.”

  She threw her hands in a dramatic motion. “How did they ever come up with that?”

  “Hello there,” a voice called from the adjacent trail.

  “Howdy.” Reagan bounced on the steps and approached the new group of people. She scanned to Travis Wayne for an explanation.

  “I ran into these folks a few hours ago. They were lost in the woods. I helped them find the ranger station,” Travis Wayne said.

  “We seem to be lost.” A middle-aged man tied his curly gray-blonde hair into a messy ponytail. “Is the ranger in?”

  Reagan paced to the new group of six. “No one is here. The phone isn’t working and neither is the radio.”

  “Ah. It seems we’ve wasted a trip.” A Boston accent honked with each syllable. He bypassed Reagan and marched to Granddad. “My name is Jasper Oliphant.”

  Granddad cleaned his round glasses with a cloth before offering a hand to Jasper. “Floyd Tucker. My friends call me Tucker.”

  Jasper shoved his hands in the pockets of his jean shorts. He didn’t wear a jacket or carry any supplies. “Well Tucker, maybe you could give me more information.”

  “You should talk to Reagan. I don’t know anything more than what we’re seeing.”

  Jasper bounced on his bleach-white Reeboks. “Alright, where’s this Reagan fellow?”

  Reagan offered a finger wave. “Over here, Boss.” She directed her attention to the rest of his group. The crew didn’t dress for a hike much less the cold weather. “Why don’t we start a fire and get acquainted.”

  “Thanks, kid but we really need to get to the RV. I just need someone to point me in the right direction.”

  Reagan clasped her hands resisting the urge
to smack some sense into the man. Travis Wayne stepped between them. “RV’s stuck in a gulley at the bottom of Monty’s Pass.”

  “It’s a long hike. You won’t make it before dark,” Reagan said.

  Jasper pounded his busted watch. “It doesn’t get dark for hours. We’ll make it.”

  “If you haven’t noticed, the green haze complicates things and your family looks cold,” Reagan said pointing a finger in their direction.

  Jasper’s beer-belly bobbed as he whirled to face his group. “My boy Junior and I will get the fire going.” He motioned to a kid, two years younger than Reagan.

  Junior’s dusty hair curled below his ears. He hiked his baggy jeans and mumbled “Whatever” as he stomped away.

  Travis Wayne pulled a lighter from his pocket. “I’ll handle it.” Kelly hooked his arm, not letting him out of her sight again.

  Turning her attention to the newbies, Reagan took inventory. A plump, pretty woman nudged her way through. “Sorry for my husband dear. When he’s on a mission, he can be overbearing. I’m Olivia by the way.” Olivia wore her blonde hair to her shoulders where the ends flipped in a u-shape. A straw visor shielded her face from the brightness. Her long-sleeve periwinkle Mt. Rushmore shirt hinted at a recent visit.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure we’re all on edge right now.”

  “Oh, my yes.” Olivia’s Boston accent was more aristocratic than her hubby. “I have never seen a storm quite like this in all my days.”

  “Are y’all here on vacation?” Reagan asked.

  “Yes, in fact, we are. We are driving cross-country in the RV my husband mentioned earlier.” She danced in place. “We were having so much fun. I especially enjoyed Mt. Rushmore.” She held out her t-shirt for Reagan.

  Reagan forced a smile as she tried to get the woman on track. “Were you all stuck in the middle of the storm?”

  “Heavens no. We were in the RV when awful lightning started. Jasper pulled the RV over and we all hid as best as we could until it was through.”

  Reagan wanted to ask if anyone in the group had burns on their neck but decided against the direct question. “So where are you from?” Beyond Olivia stood a couple in their fifties and a tall, broad-shouldered man. His back was to Reagan and she couldn’t determine his age. Unlike the rest of the group, he wore a camping backpack equipped with a popup tent and sleeping bag. He didn’t fit with the others. He hung to the outskirts looking for something.

  “We’re from Caribou, Maine,” Olivia said. “We run a restaurant. Jasper is the cook. I am the hostess and I also keep the books. Our son Junior is a waiter. And of course, the Von Reichenaus are our business partners.”

  “Why don’t we head inside and get warm?” Reagan cast a questioning stare at Olivia’s flip-flops and pink capris. “You must be freezing.”

  “A wee bit. But I’m used to the cold.”

  “You must be Mr. and Mrs. von Reichenau,” Reagan said to the passing couple.

  Neither dressed for the climate and huddled together. Mrs. Von Reichenau spoke first. “I’m impressed with your pronunciation. Most people don’t do so well.”

  “Lucky guess,” Reagan shrugged.

  “You can call us Meredith and Don,” said Mr. von Reichenau.

  “Thank you, Don, nice to meet you both.”

  “I’m Dawn,” said Mrs. von Reichenau. “D-A-W-N. My husband is Meredith.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Almost as tricky as your last name.” Reagan laughed but the von Reichenaus were not amused. She knelt to check on Annabeth. “You seem better.” Annabeth attempted to escape the stretcher. “But take it easy, Aunt Bea.”

  “I’m fine,” Annabeth said. “Let me help.”

  “Save your energy. We can handle things for now,” Reagan said lifting one end of the stretcher. “Jon,” she called to the station. “I need help bringing Annabeth in.”

  “I can help.” The tall guy from the Caribou Crew placed his cute little terrier puppy on the ground.

  “Who’s this?” Reagan asked as she knelt to the puppy’s level.

  “His name is Mickey.”

  “Like Mouse?”

  Granddad offered Mickey a piece of beef jerky and gained an instant friend.

  “Like Mantle,” he corrected. “I’m Scotty Malone.” He tugged his red Texas Rangers ball cap.

  “I’m Floyd Tucker, you can call me Tucker. And these are my granddaughters Reagan and Annabeth.”

  Reagan rubbed Mickey’s black tummy. “Your name is Scotty and you have a Scotty dog. And here I thought the von Reichenaus were confusing.”

  Scotty offered a half-grin. “I still think the von Whatevers take the cake. Their names combine to Don Meredith and to further confuse things, Meredith is the guy.”

  “A Cowboys fan I take it?” Granddad asked. “I remember Dandy Don in his heyday with America’s Team.”

  “Sure.” Scotty shoved his hands in the pockets of his dusty colored jacket. It cinched at the arms and the waist. The battered, well-worn material faded in spots. “I was born and raised in Tyler, Texas.”

  “What is George Strait doing here?” Annabeth squinted at Scotty.

  He laughed. “Yeah, I’ve heard the comparison a time or two. Unfortunately, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.” He tapped Annabeth’s foot. “How did you pull off this queen’s treatment? ‘Cause I wouldn’t mind getting carried around all day. These mountains aren’t easy to climb, you know.”

  Annabeth’s cheeks pinkened. “I was stung by a swarm of bees and I’m allergic.”

  Scotty scraped a hand along his neck. “Yikes. You’re looking good now though.”

  “Reagan refuses to let me walk inside.”

  Mickey gave Reagan several sloppy kisses before she stood again. Scotty towered above both her and Granddad. He clocked in around six-four. “How did you hook up with the Caribou Crew? I take it you haven’t known them long?”

  Pulling a tennis ball from his pocket, Scotty tossed it to Mickey. “They stumbled into my camp this morning after the storm.”

  “Were you out in the storm?”

  “My brother and I were camping. Mickey and I ran through the woods to find shelter but we lost my brother at some point. I spent all morning looking for him, but he was gone.” Mickey returned with the tennis ball and Scotty threw it again. “I was hoping to enlist the ranger’s help to find him.”

  “We were all hoping to find the ranger here.” Reagan motioned for Scotty to grab the other end of the stretcher. “Do you mind giving me a hand?” He clapped his hands several times and drew a laugh from Annabeth. Reagan rolled her eyes. “Lead On, Strait.”

  Chapter 13 – Not in Kansas

  Tom

  After a restless night, Tom woke with the sun, though the persistent mossy haze greeted him. Davidson handled the last watch of the night, but the man snored near the smoldering campfire. In the distance, smoke from the treetops wafted to the sky, but no flame burned.

  As each member awoke, Tom prepared them for the journey. Barb rubbed her eyes and veered him to a sidebar. “These burning trees are troublesome. I managed to talk Jeremy into problem-solving and running scenarios last night.” She motioned to the bespectacled scientist. “Jeremy, can you please share your thoughts on our discussion?”

  “A man-made gas could’ve been released into the atmosphere in this area. It causes the green color and retains heat concentrated in certain areas perhaps seventy feet off the ground. The intense heat eventually burns the wood. This haze also acts as a lid, a greenhouse effect, and when the heat hits the clouds above, condensation processes into ice crystals or snow. The lightning we see is like static electricity on steroids. All of this makes for an unstable environment which could, in fact, be fatal to humans. Hence those directly in it like our boat crew.”

  “Sounds plausible, Doc. I’m happy you were able to focus and propose a theory. It makes sense.”

  Hibbert sniffled and plastered a grin on his face. “Barb was a fantastic sounding board and h
elped me with some of the details.”

  Davidson scratched the stubble on his face as he cleared his throat. “All well and good, but the ‘fatal to humans’ part of your theory, of your conjecture, concerns me beyond words. Where should we go for safety?”

  Tom pointed to the road. “Shelter. We find a house and a phone.”

  Dixie flipped her blond hair as she removed her tank top and donned Tom’s Brooklyn Dodger t-shirt, the extra from his backpack. “My tank top was getting ratty.”

  “No problem. I wish we could all change – we’re a sore sight.” Tom surveyed the ragtag unit. Genevieve’s bright yellow lace shirt was ripped and grime covered her black button-up, high-waisted shorts. Barb’s coral Capri pants stained gray with soot and swamp water. Dixie’s jean shorts ripped more than the hipster design called for. A gaping hole above the thigh of Hibbert’s windbreaker pants made a match with his traffic cone orange shirt’s missing buttons. Gus wore a black superhero t-shirt and baggy, faded, ripped jeans. Tom’s cargo shorts weighed ten pounds heavier with the dirt and water and his boat shoes flopped, the sole on the bottom torn. His blueberry colored shirt featured globs of mud.

  Davidson hobbled to the road relying on the stick used as a cane. Unlike the others, his outfit remained as ship-shape as the day he bought it off the store mannequin. Maybe this one time, paying astronomical prices made sense. Tom didn’t spot a scuff or speck of dirt on the police officer-blue boat shoes.

  For a half-hour, the crew traveled the road until the asphalt burned through shoes. They shifted to the grassy shoulder of the road continuing the swift pace. Dripping with sweat they divvied the remaining sips from the last jug of water.

  “I can’t go any further.” Genevieve plopped to the ground after taking her sip. “I’m done.”

  Tom kneeled to Genevieve’s level and offered some of his share of water. “Through those trees. Do you see the chimney?”

  “Where?” she squealed. “Is there a house?”

  “A chimney. It’s industrial, but that works too. I’d say it is three or four miles away. We can all make it.”